Laughing All the Way
by ThreeJays
Summary: Vampires don't do Christmas - not voluntarily, at any rate.  A silly, fun D/E holiday ONESHOT that's way too long - dedicated to my amazing reviewers and much happier than my usual fare.  :   Rated M for language and a somewhat naughty scen


**DISCLAIMER: Don't own it. But I miss it. This hiatus was loooong.**

A/N: I owe so many amazing people comments, I really do. I've had a hella bad month and a hella-rough year and worst of all, I have some sort of weird thing going on with that I can't always log in – I don't know why. 

At any rate, this fic is being posted as an enormous THANK YOU. This isn't about me or for me – this is all about and for and dedicated to the amazing folks who review me and leave me kind note after kind note. Specifically, this is for Ariadne's Web, Lok-Ya, Crimson-Kiss17, twistiek, FinnFiona, bibi 13ca, tamilnadu09, Kymberleii, Zoraya Windwalker, Lelderkin, romancerevival, and so so many more I'm forgetting. You don't know what you guys do for me. You've been a bright spot in a very dark year and this is my (very humble, very meager) gift to all of you.

Sadly, it is way less than great. It's basically a five part one-shot that I should have split up. And didn't. I wrote this for fun and in hopes of making you laugh and "awww" for the holidays. It's not super angsty or super plotty, but I really had fun with it. I see Damon and Elena on the verge of something in Season 3, so the angst isn't as heart-aching – it's a little softer around the edges, I guess. 

Anyhoo, please don't expect my absolute best, but that said, I really really hope you enjoy it. It'd be a real bummer if I gift you all a fic you hate! HA! I hope you all have a wonderful holiday and a new year filled with goodness, laughter, and DAMON AND ELENA HOTNESS IN THE LATTER HALF OF SEASON 3!

Rated M for too many F-bombs and a little bit of naughtiness (not full boar) at the end

Review if you can – it's always awesome to hear from you.

**EGGNOG:**

Elena Gilbert is the devil.

Oh, I know. She's the poster child for all things good – the crowned Princess of Sweetness and Light. That's only because people don't really know her. She might have been a cheerleader and a girl scout and every other damned goodie-two-shoes thing there's ever been, but I'm telling you, there's a seedy underbelly to this girl that would put Hitler's panties in a twist.

No, Elena Gilbert is pure mother-fucking _evil_ and the eggnog sitting in my fridge proves it.

She's standing across the kitchen from me now, wearing her innocent little white sweater and her aw-shucks-I'm-harmless sneakers. I stare at the carton of eggnog I've spotted on the second shelf. It's like Christmas puked itself up all over the container. Little Santa's and reindeer and bullshit trailing up and down the sides.

I scowl at them, and then at her. "Elena?"

"Yeah?" She doesn't look up from her box of supplies. She's too busy organizing. Wolfsbane, heavy gauge rope, a box of Lucky Charms—you know, the essentials.

"What's with the eggnog?"

"What do you mean?"

She's reaching up on her tippy-toes to put something in a tall cabinet. I could help, or I could sit here and fantasize about running my tongue along the sliver of flesh that's showing where her sweater has ridden up. Hey, I never said _I_ wasn't evil.

I tilt my head, admiring the golden curve of waist into hip. "What's? With? Eggnog? Which word's tripping you up?"

She spins on her heel, arms crossing and face glowering. "I understood the words."

"Good. Then answer the question."

She shrugs then, looking haughty. "You like booze. Alaric has been raving about this particular brand, so I brought a carton over from our place."

I narrow my eyes and she scoffs. "It's not exactly a conspiracy."

"Vampires don't do Christmas, _Elena_."

"I know that, _Damon_."

"Well, apparently you don't because I'm now the proud owner of a holly jolly beverage and I'm pretty sure it's not because you were worried I had a liquor shortage in the house."

"It's _just_ eggnog." She grits it out through clenched teeth.

I nudge it another inch back on the shelf. "Fine. Just don't go expecting some sort of Hallmark movie turnaround where I start decking the halls and fa-la-la'ing or whatever the hell it is you humans do in December."

She throws up her hands and crosses the kitchen to push her way past me, smelling like flowers and vanilla and a hundred other things I'd kill to sink my teeth into.

She swats my hand away from the carton and plucks it out of the fridge. "Alright, drama queen, I'll take it home."

I snatch it back from her. What can I say? I'm a fickle little fucker. "I didn't say I didn't want it."

She leans back against the counter with a long-suffering sigh. "You're impossible."

"And you're stalling so you don't have to admit it. C'mon, Elena. Fess up. You're envisioning some sort of miracle on Bloodsucker Boulevard where I throw a feast for the town orphans or dress up in a Santa suit or something."

"Oh my God, seriously? It's eggnog, Damon! Eggnog! You really need to get a life."

She storms out of the kitchen in a cloud of good smells and righteous indignation. I holler after her. "I had a life, you know. Then you came in and fucked that all to hell."

"Good! Then, we're even!"

I shouldn't laugh, but I do. And I'm still laughing when she slams her way out the front door.

**LIGHTS:**

I flip on my windshield wipers and narrow my eyes at the white shit trailing through the sky. "I could be in Palm Beach right now, you know."

"Just keep your eyes on the road," she says, white knuckling the purse in her lap.

"Or maybe Maui. Hell, I could be in Tahiti." I frown, thinking about it. Nothing quite like a long, hot drink from a girl in a string bikini.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see her brow arch as she mutters, "And I could be with someone I liked."

"Oh, you like me," I say, rolling to a stop at a light and dialing my smirk up to lewd. "You like me now. _Just the way I am_."

She snorts, but her cheeks go pink and her eyes go just dark enough to let me know she's not really pissed I remember her words that night. And by the way, tell me irony isn't a bitch that the first time Elena's lips get near mine voluntarily, I'm three-quarters dead and couldn't do a damned thing about it if I tried. I can't even.

Elena checks her phone and looks around. "Do you think we'll get there in time?"

I give her a look. "In time for what? He slid into a ditch. It's not like someone's waiting at the hospital to pull the plug on him."

"I don't know. What if the station closes? What if he's hurt. I'm just worried, okay? He's my brother."

"He's not eight, Elena. He said he was fine."

"Of course he said—watch out for that car!"

The car that has her now cowering in her seat is maybe two miles away. I'll give her that they're spinning their tires a little and fish-tailing into the wrong lane, which would be worth concern. If they were in the same county with us.

"Relax, Elena. I'm not exactly flying around the corners here."

"Sorry. I'm just on edge."

"Uh, I don't think you've even _seen_ the edge since we pulled out of the driveway."

"I'm just—" Another gasp, hand propping on the dashboard. "Take it easy on the brakes, okay? I'd like to make it to the service station in one piece. Jeremy could need help."

I roll my eyes. "Oh, he's definitely going to need help. I just don't think they staff therapists in the Mystic Falls Emergency Room."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"You mother-hen that kid so much I'm surprised you don't lay eggs whenever you say his name."

First, she looks outraged. And then pissed. Like I-will-stake-you-in-your-sleep pissed, and the girl could do it. I've trained her. And then the whole fucking thing goes pear-shaped.

Her eyes get big and shimmery and—shit.

Shit, fuck, hell, she's going to cry.

"Elena, I'm sorry," I say. Because I'm a giant vagina and really, she _should_ stake me in my sleep. Save me the trouble.

She just sniffs and looks out the window.

I keep going, because this is Mayday, Mayday territory and this fucking ship is going down. "You can't listen to me, I'm always talking out of my ass. I'm a dick like that. You know that, right?"

"I'm clear on the dick part." She turns back to me, face hard. "And the ass part."

We come up to a curve and she tenses up like I'm about to drive off a bridge and that's when it hits me.

Car wrecks.

Her brother was in a car wreck tonight and her parents _died_ in a car wreck like, what? A year and a half ago and—Jesus, I'm being a complete douche, here.

She's chewing her lip. God, she looks so damned small sitting there scared to death, wearing these red mittens. All I can think about is making her some hot cocoa and tucking her into my bed. Actually…that particular line of thinking is inspiring all sorts of thoughts, but still. I have to fix this.

I scan our surroundings desperately, looking for some sort of distraction. I'm worse than terrible at comforting people. I don't have a drop of liquor in the car, and somehow I doubt she's going to want a feel-better-fuck though God knows I'd be happy to offer it up.

And then I see it. Perched on a hill on the outskirts of town. The old Miller House, which sounds a hell of a lot less spectacular than it is. It's a three story brick colonial with a wide porch and sloping lawn. It's pretty amazing under any circumstances, but now the whole thing's festooned in pine garlands and twinkling white lights. With the snow clinging to its brass coach-lights and rooftop, it's like the cover of a damned Christmas card. I slow down, pulling to the side of the road.

"What are you doing? We can't stop. We have to get there."

I jut my chin in the direction of the house. "You see that?"

She does. I don't know this because she says anything, but she whirls to look out the window. It starts all pissy and hateful and then I hear her take this little breath. One she holds inside a hair longer than normal. I wish I could see her face. This kind of shit has sentimental-girl-thing written all over it, and I'm betting the smile curving her lips would stay with me forever. As if any damned thing about Elena won't stay with me forever.

"I remember when this house was built," I tell her.

"You do?"

"Yep. Back then everybody knew everybody's business, so you'd better believe the mousy little owner of the flour mill sitting on a shit-ton of money came as a hell of a surprise."

"An actual miller lived here?"

I nod. "He saved every dime he made. I think he and his wife died a couple of years after they built this place."

"That's sad."

I shake my head. "It's not sad. They died with everything they wanted. The house of their dreams and love of their lives. They got exactly what they wanted before they kicked it. How many people can really say that?"

She looks at me in that way of hers. Almost as if she's peeling me like an orange, finding out what's underneath. It always nerves me the fuck out. And she seems to get that, because she turns back to the house with a sigh.

I go on, a little caught up in this house. "My mom and Mrs. Miller used to make this drink every Christmas—wassail. I don't know what the hell was in it. Apple cider, something citrusy, booze, of course, loads of cinnamon…"

"So, you _did_ do Christmas," she says.

"Obviously, Elena."

"Don't '_Obviously, Elena_' me," she says. "The way you act, I'd half expect you to tell me you spent every Christmas at a bar, trolling for chicks."

I scoff. "Well, not until I was sixteen." She snickers and I smirk at her. "Maybe fifteen."

"We really should go," she says, and then she looks back towards the house. "But the lights are pretty."

I catch her reflection in the window, just the barest image of round cheeks and pink lips lit by the glow of Christmas.

"Beautiful," I agree.

**GINGERBREAD:**

"No."

She dumps the bags out on my counter with an exasperated huff. "Look, Bonnie has the flu and Caroline is chaining Tyler up for the full moon. I have no one else to call, Damon."

"Oh, well in that case…_Hell_ no, Elena. I will not make gingerbread houses with you."

She slides off her scarf and I pull in my breath as the slender column of her neck is bared to me. Might as well rip off her shirt while she's at it. Come to think of it, maybe I should suggest it. I'll bake her any damned thing she wants if that shirt hits the floor.

"I helped you make weapons last week," she says.

"Weapons I wouldn't need if you didn't have your super-secret-special-doppelganger blood attracting every evil-doer in North America."

She gapes for a moment and then crosses her arms. "Fine. I helped you when you were sick. You can't blame me for Tyler biting you."

"I don't know if that was 'help' as much as stubbornly refusing to leave my ass when you should have. You're damned lucky I didn't rip your throat out."

"I knew you wouldn't hurt me," she says.

"Did you?"

Two words and every fucking thing changes. The funny has been sucked right out of the room and the air feels tight and hollow at the same time. We're just looking at each other. It's way beyond eye-fucking. It's like some sort of psychological melding thing that shouldn't even be possible.

She opens her mouth. Probably because the silence between us is saying way too much.

"I've known for a very long time you wouldn't hurt me, Damon."

I hum, not knowing what to say to that. My fingers trail absently over ingredients, settling on a jar of molasses. "This stuff still smell as rank as it used to?" I open it up and give it an experimental sniff. My eyelids all but curl.

"I'll take it that's a yes," she says, and there's laughter in her voice. She steps closer, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth and giving me big eyes.

Little minx is trying to get to me. And when she lets out that lip, all wet and red from her chewing, my dick goes a little stiff, so yeah, it's working. Innocent, my ass.

"Will you _please_ help me with the gingerbread houses, Damon?"

"Hm…" I say, looking her over nice and slow, loving the way the blood rushes to her face, making everything warmer and pinker.

I think for a second about kissing her. It'd be hot. With the way she's looking at me—her breath getting hitchy and all—I'm pretty sure she'd climb me like a tree and tongue wrestle me into next week. But…

But, then she'd spend Christmas Eve crying into her journal about her ultimate betrayal or some ridiculous thing. I'm not into the holidays, but I'm also not into the idea of a month of silent treatment and avoidance, so I shake my head.

"Nah. I'll pass."

She wilts like week-old lettuce. Really pissed-off lettuce. "Right, I forgot. Big, bad vampire egos can't handle a girly baking project."

"No, they just don't do Christmas." I arch a brow in mock confusion. "I'm pretty sure I mentioned it the last time we were in this kitchen."

"Would it kill you to have an ounce of Christmas spirit?"

"The world may never know," I say, shouldering my way past her as I head out of the kitchen.

I'm halfway into the living room when I hear her growl. "Oh, kiss my ass you big Scrooge!"

I whirl back around, grinning. "Pull down those tattooed-on jeans of yours, and let's see if I don't."

She turns away from me, sputtering in something she wishes was disgust.

"Yeah," I say, eyes lingering on the curve of her ass. "I thought not."

**STOCKINGS:**

"Do you think these are even?" she asks.

"For the hundredth time, Elena, give it up."

"Give up what?"

"Give up your little Christmas makeover fantasy. I am not hanging stockings or putting the damned star on the tree. Hell, I'm not even going to drink hot cocoa around the fire, and I _like_ hot cocoa."

She climbs down from the stool without looking at me, stepping back long enough to survey the two stockings she's hung. Red and white felt monstrosities with glitter glue names and, even worse, individually designed symbols on the red part of the sock.

Ric's stocking is sporting a green glittery Christmas tree, a gold book, and a red stake. Jeremy's got a star, a pencil, and a pair of headphones. And speaking of Jeremy, how the fuck did he get talked into this? Sure as shit it wasn't Elena putting these together. The girl can barely draw a stick figure, so God only knows what kind of horrors she'd produce armed with glitter glue.

"I think they're good," she says, ignoring my complaint.

"I think you're obsessing in an effort to avoid the reality of your increasingly depressing existence."

She gives me a prim, fleeting look. "You need a Ba Humbug shirt."

"No, I need three or four glasses of scotch, but before I can go home to get that, I need you to go get me my crossbow. You remember, don't you? The one you _broke_."

Anger flashes in her dark eyes, but only for a second. Then she flips her hair and smirks. It's a look I probably own a patent on, but I've got to admit, she's wearing it pretty well.

"You know what. I think you secretly love Christmas, Damon. You probably have a whole room in that big creepy house of yours decked out in holiday cheer."

"Elena, your delusions are worse than I thought. Is there a medical history I should be aware of?"

She ignores me, leaning back against the wall with a mischievous look. "I'll bet you have a tree and snowglobes and…oh, yeah, one of those little light-up villages."

"Mental therapy, perhaps? A list of anti-psychotic medications?"

She rolls her eyes. "Oh, just admit it, already. It's not that bad."

"Look, whatever this is…" I trail off, waving at the tree and smattering of Christmas decorations. "I'm immune to it. So just get the damned crossbow and release me from this yuletide hell."

"Do you at least like snowmen? Reindeer?"

"No and no. Crossbow, Elena. Chop chop."

"What about presents. Surely there's something you wouldn't mind finding under your tree?"

Okay, _that_ gets my attention. I tilt my head at her giving her a look. "Excuse me?"

"Presents," she says, clearly not getting my look. "There has to be something you want."

I take a step forward, but she doesn't tense the way she usually does. Everything around us feels white hot. Electric, really, but hell, it's always like that with us. We should wear buttons about it. _Unresolved Sexual Tension: Ask Us How!_

Still, this is different. Her dark eyes are sparkling with something fun. Something that might just be flirty. And we've got way too much fucking baggage to be doing that.

"Are you asking me what I want for Christmas, Elena?" I reach up, fingering one long lock of dark hair. I watch her hold her breath, her pupils dilating as she glances at my eyes. And then my mouth. The flirty is sliding into very different territory now.

And I'm tired of dancing around it.

"Do you think you finally know what _you_ want?" I ask, letting my fingers graze her jaw.

She holds my gaze until the doorbell rings.

Mother. Fucker.

Yeah, I know what I want. A single encounter with this girl that doesn't end with someone walking in or her running away. And somehow I don't think anyone's sticking a bow on that this year.

"Hold this a sec," she says, folding a stocking over my arm.

Her name is emblazoned across the top. There's an ornament, a pair of sneakers, and a cupcake below it and why the fuck am I standing here holding a Christmas stocking for a girl that is never, _ever_ going to plant her damned feet and see this bullshit through.

It's really time to get over this, because _this_? Never going to happen. I need to get out of this house before I start forgetting that Christmas and all the rest of this human bullshit is a part of another world. One she belongs in. And I don't.

I move to toss the stocking on the coffee table when I see it isn't one stocking. It's two. And the fourth stocking has my name in glittery silver. There's a bottle of what I presume is scotch, an apron, and—as God is my witness—an angel.

I have a stocking.

I have a stocking with an angel on it.

What. The. Fuck.

I drop both of them on the table, watching them land in a merry little pile. And then, just like my spineless dishrag little brother, I run the fuck away.

**MERRY:**

My cell phone rings at-well, it says 8:02am. Is that right? Might be. I am so fucking drunk I feel like I have muppet fingers, but somehow I manage to answer the call.

"Yeah?"

"You're drunk," Elena says. Not hello. Not "Merry Christmas", which I'd expect given her fixation over the last three weeks and the fact that I'm pretty sure it's Christmas morning. No, it's just the facts, ma'am.

Well, not entirely facts. The tone has You-deeply-disappoint-me-Damon written all over it.

"You're drunk at 8:00 on Christmas morning," she says, and now she's sighing too. I can practically picture her. My long-suffering martyr in a Hollister henley.

"Oh, I'm several miles past drunk," I say, rubbing a hand over my face, but it's not just my hand. There's something metal and round. A ring? Yep. A ring. One of my mother's rings.

"Well, that's great, Damon," she snaps.

I look around my bedroom, except it isn't my bedroom. I see a toolbox and stairs and one black tire really close to my head and I don't remember a damned one of those things in my bedroom, which begs the question.

Why am I in the garage?

I sit up and look around again, just to be sure. Yep. I'm shirtless on the garage floor holding my mother's silver ring.

Huh.

"I need you to sober up," Elena says.

"Why?" I ask, not that I care. I really only care about getting off this concrete floor.

"Because you're coming over here for Christmas lunch."

Now that I'm standing up, I think she may have a point. Not about lunch. Fuck lunch. But sober would be good. Sober people don't park diagonally in their garage or steal giant plastic Santa's from people's yards.

I'm kind of guessing on that last bit, but I sure the hell don't think I bought the Santa buckled into my passenger seat.

"Yeah, no. I'm going to go to bed," I tell her. "I'm tired. Drunk, too."

"I got that part." The words are hard and fast, like bullets. She's worked into a real lather over my little bender. It's kind of hot. I adjust myself in my jeans and smirk.

"What's the matter? Santa not bring you everything you want, _Elena_?" I ask, purring out her name.

She makes a sound like a cat working over a furball. "Take a shower and drink some coffee. I'll be there in an hour to pick you up."

She hangs up before I can argue. And then I'm standing in my garage with a piece of antique jewelry, a giant lawn ornament and not a single fucking clue about the last twelve hours or so.

I remember leaving her house. The stocking—yeah, I can't even think about that. Shower. Shower, clothes. Maybe another drink, because sadly, I probably will be sober by then.

After twenty minutes in the shower, I piece together a vague recollection of the night before. Getting tossed out of the Grille. Stealing the Santa out of someone's front yard. Two, three, hell, I don't know how many bottles of scotch. At some point, I remember being in the attic pawing through a small box of Mom's old shit. Which explains the ring. And I'm pretty sure I know why I dragged out a cuff links box and a strip of red satin ribbon. And how I ended up passed out in the garage.

I was going to give the ring to Elena. My ridiculous pansy ass was going to wrap this up and drive over on Christmas Eve. I probably convinced myself that it would be romantic. Jesus, I didn't even know I had that much stupid in me.

Twenty minutes after that, I'm dressed in my room, holding the ring like a tiny cobra that's ready to strike. Or maybe like the evidence of my dickless-ness that it actually is.

Elena doesn't need another piece of old jewelry from a love-sick Salvatore. And for the record, I could actually stand to get off my ass and maybe not _be_ a lovesick Salvatore. It'll be my 2012 resolution. Getting over Elena Gilbert.

I sigh as I hear tires crunching into the gravel driveway.

Seriously? Not even in Elena-time can it have been an hour already.

No knock. No doorbell. Just her feet stomping up the porch, the door swinging open, and, "Damon!"

She's got a hell of a lot of nerve.

I tuck the box into my pocket and head to the top of the stairs. She's waiting at the bottom, wearing a red coat (of course) and a green ponytail holder and the bitchiest expression in all of Bitchdom. That look is for me, of course. It says something like, _'Happy Holidays, Damon. I hate you. Again.'_

I should tell her to fuck off. And I should mean it, but I don't. Even with her ears steaming and her lips and pinched into an ugly line, the sight of her at the bottom of the stairs makes my fucking ribs ache.

Jesus, I am a useless bastard.

"You're a jerk!" she says by way of greeting.

"Merry Christmas, Elena," I say as I make my way down the stairs.

"A complete jerk, do you know that?"

"It _is_ a fine day, isn't it? Can I take your coat?"

"Drop the nice act, Damon! You disappeared last night. I figured you just gave up on the crossbow and went home, but I should have known better. And I spent my whole morning stirring and straining and grating orange peel. Have you ever grated orange peel?"

"Uh…I..." I have no fucking clue what she's talking about. But if I say that, I'm pretty sure she's going to try to kill me.

"Of course you haven't," she continues. "Orange peel doesn't have blood or liquor in it!" She stops, giving her head a sharp shake like she needs to get herself under control.

I'm still a couple of gears behind my normal speed, but not so far as to miss that she's still not making a damned bit of sense. And she's way past pissed, here.

The expressions that are flying over her face now almost scare me.

"I was feeling a little boxed in," I shrug. "I wasn't leaving town or anything."

"Well, you can't just wander off every time you feel—"

"I _can't_?"

No, fuck that. Fuck her and fuck this entire holiday. I step right into her business until I'm so close I can see the flecks of gold in her eyes, and a tiny orange bit of what I'm guessing is orange peel in her hair. "Look, we both know you've got me by the short hairs, but I don't answer to you, Elena. You don't get that trump card, too."

I see the hurt flash across her features, and the anger, too. But I'm right and she knows it. I can see it when it hits her. She swallows hard and the anger melts away, leaving something small and resigned in its wake.

"You're right." She shakes her head, looking a little embarrassed. I see her adjust the straps on one of her shoulders. It's a big canvas bag I hadn't noticed at first.

"That was out of line. I'm just going to leave this," she says, putting the bag on the floor. She turns to go, and I am going to let her. I am going to stand her and cross my arms and for once, I am not going to cave. I'm still repeating that mantra in my head when I reach for her.

See, there's standard self-defeating behavior, and then there's whatever fucked-up thing I do. It's like a whole new level.

"Elena, wait."

She turns back and she's not crying. But she's too close to it for me to relax.

"Orange peel?" I ask, smirking. Trying to lighten the mood. "At least tell me what the hell that's about."

She looks at the ground, her cheeks stained pink as she reaches in the canvas bag. "I made you that wassail thing. It called for about two million ingredients, one of them being orange peel. It was stupid."

Shame-faced, she hands me a thermos and I stand there looking like a goldfish. Or maybe Forest Gump.

_She made me wassail_. She made me wassail and she's standing here and this is awkward as all hell and I really fucking need to say something.

"It's probably toxic." She says, trying to play it off. Like it's no big deal that she spent her Christmas morning making this for my sorry ass. "I swear there's probably orange peel on the ceiling. I have no idea what I'm doing in a kitchen."

I put the thermos down carefully. Like, Fabrege Egg carefully. I don't think anyone has actually _made_ me anything since my mom died. And, yeah, it's getting to me. So what?

She's quiet now. We both are. And for once, I don't have that zinging, charged feeling prickling at the back of my neck. Everything feels warm and soft and it's so damned obvious. This thing between us, this there-aren't-any-words-big-enough _thing? _It's bone deep, now. Fucking soul deep, if I even have one of those.

Either way I can't stand here and pretend it's not here. Not after this.

"Elena," I manage.

She flinches. She knows it's coming. She's afraid to look at me, but she does. Eyes big and dark.

"This," I pause to point at the space between us. "It's getting ridiculous. You know it and I know it. People who get stuck beside us at a red light probably know it."

"I…" she says, twisting her hands in front of herself as she swallows hard. "I know."

I sigh and move closer. "Good. Because I'm running out of ways to pretend this isn't happening."

She's not surprised when I lean in a little, but I hear her pulse go into double time. I touch her face urging her chin up so she's not looking at the floor. Her skin is so damned soft and I can feel her tremble or—hell, maybe that's me. It doesn't matter.

"We can't," she whispers, voice cracking and eyes tortured when they finally meet mine.

"We already are."

I lean in closer, until our foreheads kiss. I breathe her in, vanilla and orange peel and every good damned thing I know. She sighs and my hands trail down her neck, pausing to feel her pulse flutter beneath my fingertips. Then her hands are hovering at my sides, not quite touching—but close. Damn close.

She's breathing so hard and fast and hell, we have never been this close. Not ever. And I just want more. I'm about to climb out of my fucking skin to get closer, to smell, taste, feel her better than this.

"Elena, I want to kiss you."

She lets out a sound that almost sounds like a cry. "I know."

"And I'm pretty sure you _want _me to kiss you, and this is pretty new territory for me, because I'm not a think-it-through kind of guy,and hell, you smell so fucking good—"

She cuts me off with her lips. It's feather soft. Tentative and so shaky that she almost misses my mouth and lands on my chin. But it's Elena's lips. Elena's lips against mine and I am not half dead which makes this so intense that I'm ready to sell body parts for another go.

I pull back just far enough to look at her. Her face is set. Braced. She's ready for this.

"Okay," she breathes.

Just like that.

So, just like that, I kiss her.

I try to be easy, I swear I do. But she tastes like sunshine and Christmas and everything I've ever wanted in my whole damned life. I angle my mouth across hers and her fingers curl into the sides of my shirt. She makes this little, desperate sound and that's it. Game over.

I pull her flush up against me and, yeah, we fit. I'm surprised there's not a 'click' because we're like puzzle pieces slid in tight in every right way. My arms go around her waist and her tongue is in my mouth and this could work. Hell, this right here could go on for two or three weeks if I get my way.

She's tugging up my shirt and I'm walking her backwards towards…something. A table? I wall? Who fucking knows or cares, just as long as she doesn't stop.

We part for air, but she's greedy, greedy, greedy now, jerking me forward after a couple of breaths and all but devouring my mouth. I'm working my hands up under her sweater, fingers grazing the lace edge of her bra and I know I need to go slow, but hell, I couldn't even spell patience right now. I palm her and she groans, biting my bottom lip until I see stars.

We pull apart and she looks at me under hooded eyes.

I know what I want for Christmas. And it involves a naked Elena and my kitchen table.

"It didn't help," she says.

"Wha?" I can't manage much else. I'm a little punch drunk. And still trying to figure out a way to convince her that it'd be a good idea to go at it on my couch. Or the stairs. Or maybe right here against the front door.

"I always thought if we kissed it would finally break all this…" she trails off, clearly lost for a word that works.

"White-hot mind-fucking sexual tension?" I supply.

"Right," she sighs, running her hands over her jeans. Down the fronts of her thighs and right back up. I've never wanted to be a pair of jeans so bad in my life.

_Focus, Salvatore._

"And?" I ask, inching closer again. I've waited a million fucking years to kiss this girl. Really not wanting to dissect it before I get another few minutes of doing it.

"Yeah, well it didn't," she says, and then we're at it again.

This time she's got her hands in my hair and she's yanking me around, trying to get the angle just the way she wants it. Bossy little thing, like she always is. And I'm still the wrench in her plans, pulling away to kiss her neck, squeezing her ass until she mewls into my mouth. We end up against the front door, her legs hitched around my waist and my cock so hard I'm pretty sure I'm going to have zipper marks.

I'm kneading her chest and kissing her collarbone when she gasps. "Wait! What time is it?"

I lift my head, kissing the underside of her chin. "Wow. I really must be losing my touch."

I graze my thumbs over her nipples and she lets out a shuddering breath. "Trust me. Not it. Christmas?"

"I'm suddenly a fan," I murmur against her skin. "Yuletide, Santa, mistletoe, merriment—it's made of win."

She laughs then, throwing back her head and unwrapping her legs. I've still got her pinned, just my body between her thighs, and that makes us both laugh.

"Seriously, Damon," she says around a chuckle. "I have to get home. And you have to come with me."

"Oh, I'll come with you," I say, nibbling her ear as she laughs again.

Maybe my favorite fucking sound on earth and I'm damn good at getting it. I'm beyond shitty at everything else about Elena, but not this.

She finally wriggles herself to the floor and I let her, sighing as I kiss the top of her head. She moves to back away, but then she pauses, pressing her mouth to the hollow of my throat. Pathetic sap that I am, I close my eyes, even at that brief touch.

Hell, I'm not even going to blame myself. I'm going to soak this shit up until my fingers get pruney.

"C'mon, we've got to go," she says, straightening her hair and checking her lipgloss—yeah, that's a joke. I don't think a dab of glittery pink is going to poof away the swollen lips or the hickey on her neck. Ric's going to love this.

"Maybe I should stay here," I say, remembering his look when I'd tended to Elena's burnt cheek.

"Fat chance." She doesn't even look at me. And she knows damned well what I'm thinking about. "You wanted to go here, so we went here. I'm not facing the firing squad alone."

She turns back to me, marginally composed and keys in hand. "Are you ready?"

"Hell no," I say, and then I screw the top off the wassail. "This might help."

She stops me, a hand on my arm. "It really might be awful."

"Elena you just spent the better part of the last half hour with your tongue in my mouth. I'd be happy to drink yak's piss right now."

We head into the pale winter morning and I pat the box in my pocket as we settle into her car, wondering when I should give it to her. Later. Probably sometime after Ric figures it out and his head explodes, ruining Christmas lunch. She'll need some cheering up.

She starts the engine and smirks at me. "Over the river and through the woods, then."

"To Elena's house we go."

It's going to be a hot mess. But you can be damn sure I'll keep her laughing all the way.

-END


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